


Raising Enoch

by dorkilysoulless (custodian)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels are Dicks, Castiel has a thing about bees, Castiel's sketchy past, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kid Fic, M/M, Nephilim, Nesting Dean, Parenthood, picking names is a giant pain in the ass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 19:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2241267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/custodian/pseuds/dorkilysoulless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas is holding him in their bed in the Bunker, stroking gentle fingers through his hair in the early morning hours, when the five least invited words in the world tumble out of Dean’s mouth.</p>
<p>“We should raise a kid.”</p>
<p>And then, of course, Dean jerks awake and freaks the hell out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raising Enoch

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a fill for [Hellatus Prompt Fic Tuesday](http://itfeltpurefic.tumblr.com/hellatus) on my Tumblr blog.

Cas is holding him in their bed in the Bunker, stroking gentle fingers through his hair in the early morning hours, when the five least invited words in the world tumble out of Dean’s mouth.

“We should raise a kid.”

And then, of course, Dean jerks awake and freaks the hell out.

“I didn’t mean that,” he stammers as he sits up. He scoots back against the headboard and wraps his arms around his knees. He’s breathing too fast. “I don’t know where the hell that came from.”

“Dean.”

“I’m a hunter. Hunters shouldn’t have kids. Hunters die bloody and fuck people up. Jesus. Cas, my childhood was fucked. My dad —”

“You are not your father, Dean.”

“Yeah, tell that to Ben and Lisa.”

Cas sighs, but he doesn’t argue. He just curls a little closer and puts his hand within Dean’s reach.

It’s a long while before Dean takes it in his own, but he does eventually. Cas’ hands are warm and safe and gentle. He doesn’t deserve them. Love isn’t safe. Love just paints a target on somebody’s chest for the next bad thing. So, you know, the fact that he doesn’t let go is just more evidence that Dean Winchester is Poison. He’d rather have Cas than save him.

# # #

After breakfast, Dean makes a beeline for the garage.

His Baby’s fine, but he needs to do something with his hands, so he opens her up and checks out every hose and belt and gasket. And then he checks the brakes and the headlamps and even the goddamn seatbelts.

He knows what he’s doing. That’s the worst part.

It’s been three weeks since they had a case. John brought him up to be a soldier. A killer. And he is. From that night in Sam’s nursery on, Dean’s whole life has been death. He wasn’t even five the first time he saw John kill, and he had blood on his hands before he was thirteen. Fighting, hunting, those are what he’s good at. Everything he is, everything he knows, it all comes back to that.

So it doesn’t matter that he’s got a hole in his heart shaped like a life he barely remembers, or if that hole gets ripped wide open sometimes when he hears “Hey Jude” or sees a kid who looks like Ben.

He’s already got a home and a family. He’s got his brother. He’s got Cas. He’s got his car, and a room in the Bunker. That’s more than he ever hoped, and probably more than he deserves.

So whatever bullshit nesting impulse kicked in this morning because things are quiet can fuck off, right along with the introspection.

Dean closes up his Baby’s hood and takes her out for a drive. He shoots past Smith Center and all the way out to Phillipsburg before his head feels genuinely clear. He pulls into town and stops at a Gas-N-Sip, where he fills the tank, picks up a couple of snacks, and then gets back on the highway.

By the time he hits Lebanon again he’s feeling good, morning weirdness all but forgotten. He grills up a couple of cheese sandwiches for lunch and spends the afternoon teaching Cas to play RISK while Sam kicks both their asses at it.

That night in bed, Cas strips Dean down slow and fucks him hard and holds him close until he falls asleep. It’s perfect. Dean couldn’t ask for more.

# # #

In the morning, Dean wakes up to Cas, coffee, and news: they have a case.

“Five Dead in Mystery Cult Killing,” Dean reads aloud at the table. “Police were shocked on Tuesday to discover five bodies in a Baraboo, Wisconsin home, all apparently slain in some mysterious ritual, blah, blah, bl— whoa. Eyes removed?”

“Yep,” Sam says, and slides a file folder across the table. “Local coroner says that’s not the whole truth, though. I got him to fax us a couple of photos.”

Dean crunches down the last bite of his bacon and flips the folder open. “Those eyes aren’t just gone. They’re —”

“Burned out,” Cas finishes. He looks down and away. “An angel did this.”

Sam nods, lips pressed together tight. “And get this: whoever killed that family might not have killed all of them. According to the article, their one-year-old daughter is missing.”

“Dude, since when do angels steal toddlers?”

Dean looks from Sam to Cas, who shakes his head, equally at a loss.

“Guess we’re off to Wisconsin, then.” Dean stands, chugs down the rest of his coffee, and heads off to pack a duffel.

# # #

It’s a ten hour drive from Lebanon to Baraboo. Dean sends Cas ahead to get the ball rolling — nothing like having an angel on hand to do a little bit of recon — and so it’s just him, Sammy, and the tape deck.

Forty miles into Iowa, Dean tilts his head and glances at Sam. “Hey, you ever think we’d be less fucked up if we’d grown up in one place?”

“What?”

“Like, if nothing else was different, but instead of growing up in Baby here and hotels and stuff, maybe there’d have been a place like Bobby’s or the bunker for us. All the death and bullshit, but no new schools. Decent beds. That kind of thing.”

Dean’s eyes are back on the road, but he can see just enough of Sam in his peripheral vision to fill in the blanks: furrowed brow, confusion and worry.

“Why are you asking me?”

“Come again?”

“You’re the one who got to see both, you know?” Sam says. His words are slow and deliberate, like maybe he’s struggling or trying to be diplomatic. “The closest thing to a normal life I ever got was Stanford. I mean, I guess if you look at, like, child development theory—”

“You know what, man? Forget I asked.”

Sam sighs. “Whatever.”

Anger boils up, old and familiar. Not at Sam, exactly. Just at the fact Sam’s right. Dean only remembers it a little bit, but he knows the shape of the years that match the hole in him. He knows it like he knows the sound of the gunshot the first time he saw his dad kill, the cold weight of shame every time he failed to keep Sammy safe, and the stickiness of drying blood on his hands.

Screw child development theory. Anyone dumb enough to think having a room of his own through all of that would’ve helped anything can go get fucked.

Dean cranks the stereo and nails the accelerator.

# # #

Things none of them realized were in Baraboo: the International Clown Hall of Fame, the Circus World Museum, and a shit ton of Ringling Brothers stuff.

He doesn’t say anything, but Dean is definitely laughing on the inside.

There’s not a whole lot of late-night anything in Baraboo, so the three of them end up in a booth at the local Denny’s, Cas and Dean on one side and Sam on the other.

And yeah, maybe they hold hands under the table while they wait for their food. Dean’s a high-contact kind of guy, and given that he and Cas don’t share a bed on a three-man hunt because Cas doesn’t sleep and Dean feels weird about it with Sam in the room, he’s going to take what he can get.

“So,” he asks, thumb tracing over Cas’ knuckles. “What’ve we got?”

Cas frowns, sighs. “Very little. The angel or angels who did this left very little evidence beyond bodies.”

“Figures,” Dean grumbles.

Sam stirs his coffee. “Any good news?”

Cas nods and reaches into his jacket pocket. He lays a small lock of wispy, pale yellow hair. “A keepsake. From the daughter’s first haircut.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “So we can find her?”

“And presumably the angels that took her, yes.” Castiel may not sleep, but the mention of angels — and the implication that he may have to fight them yet again — makes him look tired. “The fact that the child wasn’t dead at the scene suggests they wanted her alive.”

Sam swallows, turns his attention to Cas. “I’m guessing that’s probably not a good thing.”

“I’ll admit, I’m struggling to imagine a scenario in which it’s good.”

“So what are we waiting for?” Dean asks, and pushes his coffee away. “Let’s go strap on some angel blades and clean house.”

Sam scoffs. “Uh, because it’s angels? No offense, Dean, but now that Heaven’s back to normal we’re kind of outclassed.”

“Hey, you know me. I love bad odds.” The grin on his face doesn’t meet his eyes, but it’s not like either of them would expect it to.

“Dean—” Cas starts, but Dean cuts him off.

“Guys, seriously. We’ve got everything we need to tie up this case. What’s the hold-up?”

“I don’t know, because we’re not idiots?” Sam glares. “Maybe because we don’t know what’s going on?”

“Since when do you need more than ‘dead family’ and ‘missing kid’, Sammy?”

Sam’s jaw tightens, and he narrows his eyes.

“Dean’s right.”

“I’m what?” Dean blinks, turns his head to face Cas.

“You’re right. Whatever purpose this angel or angels might have in taking a child, it’s unlikely that anything good can come of waiting.”

“Well, then. Let’s do this.”

Dean drops a fifty on the table and makes for the door.

# # #

Cas works the ritual, scrawling sigils in chalk on the pavement behind the shopping center next door to the hotel. Dean stands guard on his right, his pistol tucked in the back of his waistband and an angel blade in hand. From his place on Castiel’s left, Sam scans the trees behind them.

Flames shoot up from the brass bowl in the center of the circle.

“Are you ready?”

Dean nods, swallows. It’s a lie. Truth is, he’s never ready for this. It doesn’t matter if it’s Delta or Air Castiel, Dean hates flying. Even if it happens so fast he’s barely there for it. Maybe especially then.

Castiel’s grips Sam’s shoulder with one hand, Dean’s with the other, and the world goes out from under them.

When they touch down again, it’s in a dim basement, and about six inches away from a screaming teenage girl brandishing a steak knife.

“Whoa!” Dean says and jumps back, dodging as she slashes at him. “Hey, hold up there! What the hell?”

Her face is a mask of anger, but it’s human anger. Her eyes don’t flash.

“You killed them!” she shouts, and stumbles back toward a playpen. “You’re not going to kill her, you freaks!”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Dean holds up his hands, then lowers the angel blade to the ground. “Nobody’s killing anybody.”

On his left, Cas and Sam start to follow suit, but both startle at the sound of wings. Dean draws his gun.

The girl lets out a little cry as the blade rips through her, tearing through the front of her shirt. Blood seeps from the wound, soaking the fabric. She slumps, lifeless. The angel lets her fall to the floor.

“Hello, Castiel.”

“Manakel.”

The angel smiles. She reaches into her pocket for a handkerchief and wipes the blood from her blade. Her ginger hair is short and stylishly cut. She’s dressed more simply than many of the angels Dean’s seen of late in just a violet v-neck and jeans.

“I can’t decide if I’m surprised to see you and your pets, Castiel. I suppose you’d like to do the honors?” She gestures at the playpen.

Cas balks. “You think I’m here to kill a child?”

“Why not? You cut the heart from the last abomination you encountered.”

“You mean she’s—”

“Nephilim, yes.” Manakel blinks, bemused. “You mean you didn’t know? Then why are you here?”

“You weren’t exactly subtle, Manakel.”

“Oh, that.” She shrugs. “Collateral damage. I had to find the little bastard.”

Dean and Sam exchange glances. Sam nods, just the barest twitch, but enough for Dean to catch it. If they can get into position…

“Castiel, I realize you’ve developed certain delicate sensibilities, but I remember Enoch. You were fierce at Enoch.”

“This isn’t Enoch,” Cas answers through clenched teeth.

“Of course not. And it won’t be when we’re finished culling the bastards our brothers and sisters bred while heaven was shut!”

“That child is an innocent!”

Manakel laughs. “Castiel. This is ridiculous. This thing is a perversion. We are doing it a kindness by euthanizing it.”

She turns toward the playpen, and that’s all the excuse Dean needs. He takes his shot: a clean double-tap to Manakel’s center of mass. She wheels on him, hand in the air.

Dean manages to squeeze off another two shots before he slams into the wall hard enough that his vision whites out. He crashes to the floor, winded and stunned. His gun is out of reach, but he scrambles for it anyway.

He looks up just in time to see Cas bury his blade in Manakel’s side. Dean shields his eyes against the blinding light of her grace burning away.

A child’s cry breaks the silence.

“Hey man, you okay?” Sam asks and pulls Dean to his feet.

Dean rolls his shoulders, winces. “Peachy.”

When they turn to move join Cas at the playpen, he is already lifting the tiny, sobbing girl into his arms. He brushes gently at her forehead to soothe her, and the girl’s eyes glow faintly.

She quiets down. He smiles at her.

“So,” Dean says. “Nephilim. Half-human—”

“Half-angel, yes.” Cas peers at the girl, as if he can see something beyond her tiny, blue-eyed face. “Her lineage is ambiguous. That’s likely for the best. When an angel is confronted over its living Nephilim child, it…rarely ends well.”

Dean nods. “So what now?”

“I should consult with Hannah. Perhaps there’s someone willing to protect and teach her.”

“Uh, Cas?” Dean says, eyebrows raised. “Small problem. Hannah’s an angel.”

Cas sighs, frowns. “Another human family, then. I could find a couple, change their memories. She’d be less safe, though if we hid her well enough—”

Dean shoves his hands a little deeper into his pockets and focuses on his boots. His throat feels tight. He shouldn’t do this. He can’t. It’s stupid. “What about hunters?”

“Yes, we’d have to hide her from hunters as well.”

“No, I mean what if, uh…what if hunters raised her?”

“Impossible,” Cas says. “She isn’t human, Dean. She’d be in almost as much danger with hunters as she would among angels. She’d be exploited if not killed outright.”

He raises his eyes. Cas isn’t looking his way, but it doesn’t matter because he’s about to say something extraordinarily stupid.

Dean licks his lip, glances at Sam. “Not with us she wouldn’t.”

“Us.” Cas pauses, looks at Dean, then Sam.

“Yeah. I mean, you and your angel mojo, me and Sam with the guns. Bunker’s big enough, right Sam?”

“Uh, yeah?” Sam’s eyes are wide, but he doesn’t argue.

“Awesome,” Dean says, and slaps his brother on the shoulder. “Congratulations, man. You’re an uncle.”

# # #

They scavenge what they can. Car seat. Diaper bag. Clothes. Some food. The playpen doesn’t quite fold down enough to fit in the trunk.

The dead girl — Charlotte, from her driver’s license — turns out to be the babysitter. Cas tries and fails to bring her back. Dean closes her eyes. Cas helps them clean the scene.

The four of them ride together in the Impala: Sam at the wheel, Dean shotgun, making lists, Cas in the back next to the car seat. The girl — and shit, they can’t exactly call her by her real name, can they? — sleeps soundly for the first half of the drive. Partway through Iowa, though, they have to take a break.

“Dude, I’ve got this,” Dean says, and lays a blanket out on the back of the Impala. It’s been a while since Bobby John, but he figured it out then, and he remembers the drill. She’s bigger and squirmier, but she seems to get the whole concept.

When he finishes, he lifts one her tiny hands and closes it into a fist. He bumps it lightly against his own. “Go team,” he says, and smiles.

She grins back.

God damn, this is going to kill him.

When he turns around, Sam is staring at him like…like he doesn’t know what. “Shut up, Sam,” he says, and lifts her onto his hip.

“You know she can probably walk, right?”

Dean looks down at her. She’s still smiling up at him. “You holding out on me kid?”

“Na!”

“Sorry, Sam. Kid says she needs me to carry her.” He winks at her.

It’s full morning by now, and Dean carries her into the rest area’s grass strip, leaving Cas and Sam behind to deal with the remains of the diaper and raid the snack machine.

“My brother Sam thought this is what a park looked like until he was, like, six. Let me tell you kid, this ain’t a park. You? You’re gonna get real parks. I mean, you’ll probably get these too, but real parks? Swingsets. Sandboxes that you should really stay the hell out of. Other crap to climb on. Other kids.”

He puts her down in the grass and sits next to her.

“Look, you’re not going to understand this for a while, but your real parents? I don’t know ‘em. I’ve got your mom’s name in a file folder, and your fake dad’s. And I’m going to dig up everything I can on them for you in case you ever want to know it. Your real dad was some angel who figured free will meant he didn’t have to keep his dick in his pants. Which, uh, probably isn’t entirely wrong.”

He watches her pick at the grass, more or less oblivious to his words. In the sun, he can see she’s got some faint freckles on her cheeks.

“That mom and dad, they named you Jane. And kid, we can never, ever call you that. Not while you’re growing up, at least. It’s not safe, what with the cops looking for you and the angels and all of that. But I want you to hear it from me that I know, because that part of your life was real before some bag of dicks angel showed up and killed everyone who was supposed to take care of you. You didn’t ask for this shit. You’re just a tiny kid. You didn’t ask for any of this.”

Dean wipes the moisture away from his eye with his thumb.

“Thing is, I get that. And kid, I wish like hell that things were different. Your uncle Sam and me, we didn’t ask either. But this is what we got. And it’s a bad situation, kid. It really is. But we do what we have to. And it…it ain’t all bad. Like, me and Sam, you know, we’ve got each other. And there’s Cas. And, uh…well, you’re probably a little young for pie, but trust me, kid, pie? It’s freaking awesome.”

He looks down at his hands and traces over the scars.

“So we’re gonna keep you safe. We’re gonna give you as much of a home as we can. We’re gonna teach you to take care of yourself, and to kick the ass of anybody who treats you like you shouldn’t exist. And when you want to know where you came from, we’ll teach you all of that, too. Sound like a plan?”

She doesn’t answer him. Little kids aren’t, in Dean’s limited experience, fantastic conversationalists. What she does, though, kicks his ass harder than any word she might have said more or less by accident.

The kid puts some weight on her hands and sort of wiggles up onto her feet. She wobbles a little, but a step and a half later she’s climbing into his lap.

Dean wraps an arm around her, and if he’s crying, fuck it. He will literally stab the first asshole who gives him shit about that.

# # #

He crashes out hard when they get back to the Bunker. He’s been up the better part of two and a half days, and memory foam has never been sweeter.

The clock says 2:30 a.m. when he wakes up in an empty bed, bladder full and stomach rumbling.

Dean shuffles across the Bunker to the washroom. It’s quiet enough that Dean frowns. Sam being asleep, but Cas not being in evidence? That shoots a dart of worry in his chest so intense that he ducks into his room for his gun and starts down the hall to Sam’s room.

He stops short when he hears…music?

“Cas?”

“In here.”

Dean clicks the safety on his pistol and tucks it into his waistband. He nudges the door open to see Castiel on the floor of a mostly emptied bedroom, assembling a crib. Dean spots his iPod, plugged into a small set of speakers.

“Before you ask, don’t worry. She’s with Sam.”

“Sleeping?”

Cas nods. “Don’t worry. I asked him to take his gun out from under his pillow tonight.”

“Jesus,” Dean mutters as he crouches down to look over the crib plans. “Our lives are so not baby safe.”

“Arguably, our lives are unsafe for virtually any living being, regardless of age.”

“Yeah.” He reaches down and starts working on the other side of the crib. “Then again, Sam and I made it through with less, and neither of us was half angel. Though, uh, technically I guess Sam…uh. You know.”

Cas nods. “Nephilim are resilient. She’ll likely thrive.”

They work in silence, joining lettered parts with screws and pins according to the pictograms on the paper between them.

“So, uh, I kind of dragged you into this,” Dean says as they fit the frame together. “I didn’t think. I just said it and ran with it without asking you.”

“Why should you have asked me?”

“Uh, hello? Little kid? People usually get to have an opinion about that.”

“Hm.” Cas fastens the last screw, then sits back to inspect their work. Satisfied, he unwraps the mattress and lays it down in the crib. “Memory foam,” he says with a hint of a smile.

Dean slides his arm around Cas’ waist and kisses his temple. “You little shit.”

# # #

The naming conversation starts on the couch sometime after four. The room is as finished as it can be, at least for now, and Dean’s too wired to go back to bed.

“Shiphrah,” Cas suggests.

“Dude, no.”

“Why not? It means ‘beautiful.’”

Dean laughs. “I don’t care what it means, man. She needs to be able to spell it eventually.”

“Hebrew children have no trouble spelling it.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Phoebe, then.”

“No way. That’s the dumb one from Friends.”

“Fine,” Cas huffs. “Melissa is nice,” Cas says.

“What’s it mean?”

Cas laughs quietly. “Bee.”

“Ugh,” Dean says, and elbows him gently. “No bees. No bee-related anything.”

“Hephzibah?”

“Pretty sure that’s Hebrew for ‘something dad can’t spell either,’ Cas.”

He nips at Dean’s shoulder.

“Seriously, though. We can’t send a kid to school with a name like that.”

Cas is quiet for a while. “We could name her for a song you like.”

“No way. Most of those songs are about getting your heart broken or getting your dick wet. That’s just creepy.”

“A musician, then?”

Dean thinks. “Uh. Joan? Not Lita. There’s a wrestler named Lita.”

“Not Joan,” Cas says softly. “Your father doesn’t deserve the honor.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a feminine form of John.”

“Oh,” Dean says, suddenly overwhelmed. “Fuck.”

# # #

Their lives develop a rhythm almost immediately. Dean takes point in the morning, changing and feeding her. He sets up a corner of the library where she can play, and spends some of it on the floor with her, reading.

They don’t have any kids’ books, so he finds an old copy of On The Road and starts her on that.

They’ve moved anything obviously dangerous to the upper shelves and the archives, but Dean knows she’ll have to learn which things to touch and not touch a lot sooner than most kids.

Sam steps in a little after lunch. Dean’s got a feeling Sam’s going to be an indulgent uncle, especially once they discover how much she likes to ride on his shoulders. There’s going to be a kinship forming there — two kids with blood they didn’t ask for — and as much Dean aches a little that there’s something Sammy can do for her that he can’t, he’s glad that there’s someone who’ll be able to prove to her that she’s not a freak.

The three of them eat dinner together, and Cas puts her to bed, singing songs Dean can’t understand but thinks he loves more than anything he’s ever heard. Later, when they go to bed, Dean catches him fiddling with the monitor volume, turning it lower and lower until Dean can barely hear it.

“You know that’s not going to wake me up, right?”

“Don’t worry,” Cas says. “I’m watching over her.”

Dean smiles. It’s a sad smile, but a good one. He tucks himself into the crook of Cas’ arm.

“I’ve been thinking more about names. It’s surprisingly difficult, finding the right one.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not even certain I know how my name was chosen. I simply…was.”

Dean traces circles with his thumb on Cas’ belly. “Could be worse. You could be named after your grandmother.”

“Deanna Campbell was a good woman. You should be proud to carry her name.”

“Mm.”

“Sophia means ‘wisdom.’”

“And is the old Sicilian lady from Golden Girls.”

Cas chuckles. “Mila, then. It means ‘dear.’”

“That’s…actually, that’s not bad. That goes on the list.”

“List?”

“What, you think we’re going to give her the first name we find?”

“You are impossible.”

“And you love me,” Dean says, his hand drifting lower. He presses against Cas’ hip. He slides up as Cas rolls to face him and nips at his bottom lip.

“And incorrigible.”

“No idea what that means, but I’m going to assume it means I’m sexy as hell.”

Cas kisses him, warm and slow. His fingers slide over the cotton of Dean’s t-shirt, then under the hem at the small of his back. Dean tucks his thumb under the band of Cas’ briefs and starts to slide them down when Cas stops and looks at the monitor.

“She okay?” Dean sits up. His eyes flick from the monitor to Cas’ face. “Do we need to, uh—”

“No.” Cas smiles. “No, she’s just dreaming. She’s fine.”

“You can tell all that from here?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Dean’s jaw tightens as he looks down at the blanket. “Cool.”

Cas slides up next to him. “I said something wrong.”

“No, you’re fine,” Dean sighs and leans into his touch. He lets Cas comb fingers through his hair, despite his old instinct to push away. “I just…I didn’t even hear her. How’m I supposed to do this if I don’t even hear her? Or know what’s going on? Fuck.”

“In your defense, Dean, the sound I heard wasn’t even within human hearing range.”

Dean leans over, picks up the monitor, and turns the knob up from .5 to 8. “There. Next time it will be.”

# # #

Dean makes a file with everything he can find about her birth family, her real name, her real birthday. He starts a new one for…well, this. He and Sam basically have nothing from their early lives. Dean’s pretty sure normal kids get more than that.

A fresh cup of coffee appears next to him, and Dean looks up. Sam raises his own mug, then joins him at the table.

“Okay, so I’ve got everything set up to create her vital records. You two make any progress on a name yet?”

Dean shakes his head. “Every time I try, I draw a blank. Cas…well, dude’s full of ideas, but…”

“He’s Cas?”

“Yeah, he’s Cas.” Dean takes a long sip of coffee. “Also, I’m picky as hell.”

Sam smiles down into his coffee. “You know, this whole kid thing suits you.”

“Oh here we go.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. No chick flick moments,” Sam says as he stands. “I’m just saying, so far you don’t suck.”

Dean crumples up a blank piece of paper and throws it. “Dick.”

Sam throws it back and laughs.

# # #

“What about Edie?”

Cas looks up. They’re in the kitchen with Dean on one side of the table and Cas with their girl on the other. Omelet, for the record, is everywhere.

“Like the song?” Cas said, tilting his head to the side. “If I recall, it’s quite sad.”

“No. No. Like…Edie Parker. Kerouac’s first wife. She was a writer. Her life was…well, it was kind of fucked up. Like, she lived with her mom forever, but…”

“It’s a pretty name,” Cas says as he holds a piece of cold egg up to her mouth. She takes it and chews. “Edith means ‘blessed.’”

Dean leans down. “What do you think, kiddo? You like it?”

She blinks at him, huge blue eyes fixed on him. She reaches out with stubby fingers and wipes some egg on his face.

“What’s that, Edie? Cas gets to pick some terrible middle name for you? Something all weird and Greek or Hebrew that you’ll never have room for on forms?”

“Actually, I was thinking about Samantha.”

Dean blinks. “Dude, really?”

“Yes.” Cas smiles, but there’s mischief in it. “It means ‘flower.’”

Edie giggles.

# # #

Sometimes, when Dean wakes up in the night, Cas’ side of the bed is empty. He’s never taken it personally, mostly because it’s technically a lot weirder that anyone who doesn’t sleep would choose to lay in the dark with him for hours on end.

Dean rolls over and pulls the blankets a little higher. He reaches for Cas’ pillow and wraps his arms around it. He’s snuggling down and getting ready to go back to sleep when he notices the lights on the monitor flickering.

“Damn it, Cas,” he grumbles, and adjusts the goddamn volume knob back into the human range.

It’s not Edie’s voice he hears, though. He sits up, monitor in his hands, and listens.

“…er Gabriel used to play tricks on us a long time ago in Heaven. I think our Father liked to see how Michael would react. He’s the oldest of all of us.”

“Mikl?”

“Yes, Michael. And then Gabriel and Raphael and Lucifer. But they’re all gone now. Except Gabriel. I think Gabriel would like you very much. Though, ah, I’m not sure I’d trust him alone with you just yet. He’d probably try to feed you candy.”

“Gae-bree.”

“Actually, that’s probably the least dangerous thing he’d be likely to do. But I like to think he’d try to protect you from the other angels. He likes subverting authority.”

“Ub-vert!”

Cas laughs. “You’re going to be a very dangerous teenager.”

# # #

For Edie’s second birthday — her new one, which Dean insisted she share with Robert Plant, and which Sam forged onto the birth certificate that the State of Kansas has on file — Dean bakes a blueberry pie.

He and Sam are out in Montana working a case, and it’s a minor miracle that they manage to find a place with an oven, actually. In the end they end up renting a cabin nicer than pretty much anywhere they stayed when they were kids.

It would be easier just to let Cas bring them back to the bunker — Cas has been more or less on Edie duty, blipping back and forth with her daily — but Dean knows they’ll need to make travel a part of her life early.

Plus, it’s August. The weather’s nicer in Montana.

Hunts being what they are, Dean’s got a new row of stitches in his arm and a shiner when Cas brings her in for dinner. They’d talked about it in advance, preparing themselves for how to answer any of the questions Edie might ask, but she just climbs up onto him and pokes at the bruise.

“Your face is funny.”

Sam snickers. “Been telling him that for years, kiddo.”

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean says, and grins when Edie says, “Yeah! Shut up, Sam!”

Cas pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re a terrible influence on our daughter.”

“Gotta balance you out, don’t I?” Dean says and winks.

They eat dinner out on the porch. It’s some kind of spaghetti thing Sam put together with a bunch of vegetables in it, but Edie likes it well enough, even if she mostly eats it with her fingers.

Cas joins in, pleading curiosity about her technique, though Dean’s pretty sure he’s just messing around.

Dean may or may not take some pictures with his phone.

After spaghetti, they do presents. Edie gets a book about the alphabet from Sam with a hand-drawn appendix on Enochian in the back. Dean gives her a pair of tiny hiking boots, and she grins at him so big he helps her put them on right then and there. Castiel’s present to her is a tiny black Carhartt jacket with sigils embroidered into the lining.

Cas packs everything into Edie’s duffel while Dean dishes out the pie: one slice each for himself, Cas, and even Sam, and then a little bowl for Edie with two tiny candles in it.

“Okay, kiddo. Check it out. This is pie. Your grandma used to make it for me when I was little, so it’s special, okay? Best stuff on earth.”

“Does it always have candles?”

“Nope. Those are special just for your birthday. I’m gonna light ‘em up, and you can blow ‘em out.”

“Okay.”

Dean lights the candles and Edie blows her little lungs out at them. If Cas quietly snaps his fingers to extinguish the flames, well, nobody needs to know.


End file.
